Meditation: Winter Solstice

image by hdiwan

After weeks of overcast skies, the sun has finally returned on this, the darkest night of the year. Today is the First Day of Winter, the day of the Winter Solstice. Tonight the darkness will last longer than at any other time of the year. Tomorrow, daylight slowly returns to supremacy, with light outlasting the dark.

Sunset is in just under an hour. Right now, the sky is my favorite color blue and offset with perfectly puffy clouds. The grass is actually dappled -- dappled! -- with sunlight. From inside my cozy (read: cluttered) studio, the wind blowing the leaves across the quiet street seems friendly and playful. Being outside is another matter: the current temperature is 27 degrees Fahrenheit, with that frolicsome wind making it feel like 12.

Midwinter in Southwestern Pennsylvania is a doleful affair. Grey grey grey is the order of most days. Sometimes it's the type of moody sky full of gradations of grey and luscious layers of clouds. I like those days. The dark, bare tree branches stand out in sweet relief against slate grey and blue. The world is my favorite palette on such days.

But those days are rare, it seems. More often, the world is a washout of whitish-grey, an opaque cloud of sadness shrouding everything. I don't even mind those days sometimes. A little bit of melancholy is always good for me. But lately, they seem to consume the landscape and last for months on end. In turn, I get anxious, lethargic, unfocused. I think this is getting worse as I age.

My brother moved to Arizona several years ago, but always comes home for a few weeks around Christmas and sometimes for a bit in the summer. He admits to missing the seasons we have here, the smell of tree and grass, so different from the smell of cactus and sand. But he can't move back. He's been christened in the sunshine of the Southwest. He tells us that things are easier there; people are more cheerful and friendly. And apart from two months out of the year when it's too hot to do anything, he says, it's always perfect weather for going and doing something. The Southwest is a continual grand adventure, all thanks to the sun.

But as much as I rejoice at the sight of bright blue days here, I don't think I could live in the land of eternal sunshine. After awhile the strong rays wear me out, jangle my nerves, make me twitchy and insecure. Besides, I like thick winter coats, striped gloves, colorful scarves. I've heard that the sky is perpetually blue in Colorado, even after snowfall. Perhaps Denver has the best of both worlds.

In the time it's taken me to type this, the sun has waned and everything has taken on that soft, lovely hue just before sunset. Twilight is my favorite time of day, when everything is blue, comforting, and mysterious. Try as I might to reset my internal clock, I am an undeniable night owl. The sun sets and I come alive. This is my time to think, create, connect, to be most myself.

Tonight, on the darkest night of the year, I embrace the gifts of the dark and wait for the coming light.

33 Things for Me

image by Michael_Lehet

My birthday was a few days ago (the 13th). I'm 33 this year. I'm very pleased with that number: it has good symmetry. It holds promise. My husband says he thinks this is the year we finally become adults. I prefer to think of it as continuing to come into our own.

James also asked me what I want for Christmas this year. I'd given him a wish list (at his request) but he said that nothing on it was "jumping out" at him and asked me to give it some more thought. There are plenty of things that I like and want and would appreciate receiving. But I realized that so much of what I desire isn't sold in stores and doesn't come in boxes.

So to celebrate growing up, coming into our own, and appreciating that we have more than we need, here's my wish list of 33 things I'd like to do, have, or be.

1. Learn all the words to "Carol of the Bells."
2. Have a surprise birthday party.
3. Get an MFA in writing.
4. Write a book. Get it published. Repeat.
5. Make perfect Yorkshire puddings.
6. Build (or buy) the cottage of my dreams.
7. Spend some time on the West Coast, specifically in Big Sur, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia.
8. Act in another play.
9. Go snow skiing.
10. Sip espresso in an Italian cafe.
11. See elves in Iceland.
12. Go back to England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales to visit my old haunts and see the places I missed the first time around, like Cornwall, Devon, and the Isles of Iona, Skye, and Mull.
13. Develop the patience to learn how to take better photographs.
14. Keep my house clean, tidy, and beautiful more often than it's not.
15. Attend TUBACHRISTMAS.
16. Remember to plant spring bulbs in the fall.
17. Drive a car with a manual transmission without fearing hills.
18. Be bilingual.
19. Achieve and maintain a healthy weight and strong body.
20. Visit New York City during the holiday magic of December.
21. Spend a week with my tribe gathered together in one beautiful place.
22. Live near the sea.
23. Go on a zero gravity flight.
24. Stay out of debt.
25. Write poetry again.
26. Skinny dip under a full moon in a warm pool of water.
27. See the Northern Lights.
28. Compost.
29. Make art on a regular basis.
30. Write everyday. (And not feel guilty if I don't.)
31. Get a pair of cat-eye glasses.
32. Live in a lovely small town with big city amenities.
33. Add 67 more things to this list.

Yesterday's Lessons

image by Badgurl

What I learned from spending the day with a friend, a toddler, and a newborn:

• I'm woefully out of shape. My muscles are screaming today after hoisting around a 35-pound kid yesterday and getting down on the floor to play with him.
• Kids never stop. Ever.
• Losing a few pounds is definitely a good idea. The waitress asked me how old my newborn was. When I pointed to my friend and explained that he was her six-week-old, the waitress exclaimed, "That's your baby? You look amazing!"
• I'm still not ready to commit to having my own offspring.
• When and if I am ready, I think one will be plenty.
  
• Those minivans with the automatic doors are AWESOME.
• I inherently know how to use THE LOOK and THE VOICE when a kid acts up.
  
• Toddler poop is a serious mess.
  
• Swaddling is a lifesaver.
  
• Babies"R"Us is full of tempting consumer ploys to make me chuck my birth control pills in the garbage. (Tempting, but not convincing.)
  
• Sometimes it's easier to just pick up the toddler than to hold his hand and let him walk.
• Two-year-olds talk. A lot. And I understand very little of it.
  
• Hearing a toddler shout "Lello!" when he spots his favorite color is just about the most joyous thing ever.

Tell Your Story: An Interview with Jen Lee

The magical Jen Lee, photo by Jen Lemen

Some things I love:

• new friends with old souls;


• beautiful creative projects;


• learning how to do something new; and


• getting to the heart of a story.

This audio interview that I did with the radiant Jen Lee envelops all four of these things. First of all, my lovely new friend Jen has a wise soul that practically glows with creativity. To create this interview, she taught me a thing or two about using Garage Band on my new Mac. But the best part of this little interview is getting to hear a piece of Jen's story, including how and why she created Don't Write: A Reluctant Journal and Solstice: Stories of Light in the Dark, two projects that are still available for purchase on her website. (Each are part of limited edition runs, so don't wait to order them!)

Treat yourself to a warm beverage, close your eyes, and allow yourself to soak in Jen's voice as she talks about having the courage to write and making our voices heard.

(Once you click through to the audio link, just click "Play" to listen to the interview online.)

The Life of a Writer

me and my love, selves portrait; rockport, massachusetts, october 2008

Some Days
by Billy Collins

Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.

All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.

But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs,
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.

Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next
if you were going to spend it

striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds,
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?

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"Some Days" from Picnic, Lightning, by Billy Collins, © 1998. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.

Online source: Academy of American Poets, http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19753